The Halls of Reputation
by Wolfsbaine
Summary: Remus reflects on Sirius’s life and death.


Title: The Halls of Reputation.

Rating: R for language.

Paring: No Romantic paring but story involves Sirius, Remus and Tonks.

Word Count: 7,125 (give or take a few)

Author: Wolfsbaine.

Beta: i alias-iii /i Thanks for sticking with it, its not very rewarding for you, but thank you for all you advice and help.

Summary: Remus reflects on Sirius's life and death.

AN:

These are not the voices of the well-known characters from canon and fanon, but my take on the characters, the voices I hear when I think of the character involved in the story. These are the voices of friends in quiet moments away from the action they are normally associated with, speaking in a manner that old friends do.

The story was inspired by the play 'Dialogue in the Dark' written by Michael Ignatieff, in which two contemporaries philosophize on issues in their lives shortly before the death of one of them.

The fic was originally written for the Sirius Loving community challenge as a memorial piece, but it never made it to post due to real life commitments. On a final note this work is part of a set of stories called 'Conversation Pieces.'

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, I am not making any money out of said characters, they are all owned in varying rights to JK Rowling, and Warner Bros.

I do however own all that is not related under JK Rowling or Warner Bros rights.

**The Halls of Reputation.**

I hadn't been back to that house since that awful night, staying away, losing track of the days, preferring to keep to myself for a time seemed the best course of action. I stayed home, stayed somewhere I felt safe in its familiarity. Until now; now there was a driving urge to come here, to enter this most miserable of homes and remove his things, free him finally from the cold and calculating clutch of that house and all who conspired with him to let him think longingly on death and honour, then eagerly on life.

I opened the door, already knowing that the house would be empty, quiet, with no one to disturb me. I had checked with Dumbledore before coming here. Explaining to him what I wanted to do, he had replied in that quiet measured way of his, "If you feel you need to do this, Remus, then by all means, I will let you know when the place will be empty."

I had thanked him and was about to leave, when he spoke, "If I may ask, what will you do with them?"

"I am not sure yet, give them to someone he was happiest with, somewhere away from anything to do with his family."

The wizard nodded no further explanation was needed or could be offered; like Harry I felt that in some way the headmaster was responsible for Sirius's actions. Dumbledore always was a little cavalier with Sirius's passionate nature and on more then one occasion I had been forced to wonder if the old wizard had used one of us to his own ends and for the greater good. Harry wasn't alone in needing someone to blame for the loss of his guardian. Thus with-standing the pain of losing one's friend does not come more easily with age and maturity, and for said friend to have such ill will befall him for a second time and in such unjust circumstances could not be endured without someone to hold to account. As with Harry, in moments of weakness it was the headmaster upon whom I heaped my ire. We had placed our lives in his hands at one time or another and in that moment as Sirius fell through the veil, I was not sure Dumbledore had served us well.

Now, as in the past, I found myself more guarded around the ageing wizard; even something as trivial as telling where I was taking Sirius's belongings seemed to me to betray his memory. I would keep the fate of his belongings to myself.

Did I think the old wizard knew what I was about? Very probably. Did I think he had broached the subject to allow me to bring forth my catharsis? Most assuredly. Would I affirm this? Most definitely not.

I didn't want to talk. Not to him, not to anyone.

These thoughts filled my mind as I entered the house; it was the same, dark, unrelentingly suffocating mausoleum to an ancient family whose epoch had passed. I moved through the hall, taking the stairs as quietly as possible, not wishing to disturb anything in the house. I reached Sirius's bedroom without incident, my hand hovered over the doorknob, then reluctantly I let it drop onto the cold lifeless metal, swiftly turning it and entering the room.

It was evident on surveying the room that it neither reflected the nature of its previous occupant or the matriarch of the family. In fact it was a very stylish, Queen Anne walnut bedroom suite, offset with white bone china that greeted the onlooker, it could have been the bedroom of any wealthy being anywhere in any world.

Shaving equipment adorned the washstand, a precision weighted cutthroat razor with its warm-to-the-touch ivory handle, sat where it had always sat from the day it had been presented to its owner. Next to it also untouched was a sable shaving brush, again set in smooth polished ivory to continue the theme begun by the razor. The silver, intricately worked shaving mirror accompanied the pieces. White Egyptian cotton towels lay folded neatly next to the china soap dish etched with the same silver monogram. Reaching out, I picked up the soap, cool and smooth to the touch, the surface indented by the Black family crest, which preceded the maker's insignia; the clean, crisp, citrus note of Bergamot cut the warm heavy scent of Sandalwood. The aroma was as familiar to me as his raven black hair and the taste for the finer things of life had stayed with Sirius long after fortune had lead him to a less opulent lifestyle; thus he had continued to use the same brand of soap all his life, when he could get soap that was; now its redolence brought his presence close to hand.

Yet something was not right. There was something strange and unnerving about the scene. Disturbed, I contemplated the items, thoughtfully running a finger the length of the soap. Then it hit me. These items were fresh; they were not covered with the dust of time. The towels were not greying from being sat in the room for many years, untouched, and the soap was new, not parched of moisture, cracked from the dried out, lifeless atmosphere. I knew without question that Sirius had not used any of these items since he had returned to his parents' home. The proof, if needed, sat on the bedside cabinet; there, still left ajar from its use on that final day, was the grooming kit I had brought from the flat he had purchased with the money his Uncle had left him.

An eerie feeling crept down my spine causing me to inhale sharply, an involuntary shiver coursed through my body causing me to pull my overcoat tighter round me. I tried to push the growing sense of revulsion that was permeating my mind to one side. But the realization that this was some sick ritual of Kreacher's would not be quieted. I did not wish to dwell on the part the Black's house elf may have played in his master downfall. I doubted that even had Sirius been the kindest and most benevolent of masters the odious little article would have been any different and I could not find a charitable thought for Kreacher at this moment in time.

Steeling myself, I turned to the tallboy. Pulling open the top draw, I rooted through the clothing. Knowing exactly what I was looking for helped, and in no time I retrieved the photo album that Sirius had hid there. I tidied the clothing into place, so the house elf wouldn't know that someone had been through the draws, not that I cared, if the little snot did know and the thought of the little fink racking his tiny mind in wonder did appeal to the less understanding mood that had come upon me.

The ornate bow-fronted satin smooth walnut wardrobe was next in line. Opening the door, yet another scent assailed me; frankincense wafted from the row of exquisitely made robes, the bespoke garments of finest wool and silk slid gracefully to one side as I looked for the much loved and battered leather jacket that had been Sirius's prized possession in his short, yet significant, life. He had asked me to bring the jacket to him on his return to Grimmauld Place; lord alone knows why, it wasn't as if he could go out. I found the jacket neatly folded on the floor of the wardrobe; it occurred to me that this action was a mark of defiance against the mother he had come to abhor. After all his wearing of muggle clothing at all times except when in school had been in open rebellion to his mothers desires. But as I ran a hand down the midnight blue, beautifully weighted soft and smooth as skin cashmere robe, in just the right colour the right movement and cut, it was evident even to me that she had chosen these items of dress for him. He on the other hand had reached a point in his relationship with his mother that he would rather his jacket lay on the floor then be contaminated by the ostentatious robes she had bought him. As with the shaving equipment, they would remain a monument to what might have been. I caught the scent of him yet again and for a briefest of moments I wanted to bury my face in the jacket, to immerse myself in happier times. Instead, I placed it with the photo album.

I gathered the few remaining items, which I had brought to the house some few short months ago with a monotonous diligence. The sight of the pitiful pile of belongings brought an unexpected response. Sitting down on the bed, I composed myself; the pain of losing Sirius caught me off guard at times.

I had not mourned the Sirius who had been imprisoned in Azkaban; at that moment in time he deserved to be incarcerated to my way of thinking; yet in my heart, confusion reigned as to what exactly I felt for the friend of my youth. I had foolishly let myself believe he was capable of anything his arrogance had exacted a price before. I wanted to hate him for destroying so many lives, even those he had called friend. Traitor seemed too restrained a term for what he had done. It would have been so simple to hate him and never think on it again, but that was to straightforward an emotion to reach. Anger, oh yes anger, it raged in me for what I believed he had done, but hatred, no. I knew my acceptance of Sirius being the perpetrator of such vile acts came from a hurt that he had inflicted on me without knowing at the time. I knew somewhere inside, that I was judging him through that hurt when believing he had committed those crimes. Thus I couldn't equate the two Sirius's I knew of as one and the same person. In time, numbness took the place of any feelings I had with regard to Sirius and finally the fight to survive had consumed what was left of me, blotting out everything. Yet in the dark quiet small hours of the morning, thoughts would invade my sleep, horrifying me, renting my emotions again. The peace, which had come to the wizarding community on Voldemort's first defeat, had passed me by and left my life in turmoil.

Now I sat on his bed in the room of his childhood, painfully aware of the echoes of him that assaulted my senses and the wrong I had afforded him. Here, where the pureblood mania of his family had been banished, the conflict of his life bludgeoned my mind.

It must have been a daunting task, to try to rise above this stagnant environment and try to change oneself, as Sirius had attempted to do. It should have earned him admiration and respect, not abhorrence and accusation, or the ease of condemnation, even from myself, that he had been subjected to. Yet in spite of this he showed an honour and integrity in the depth of feeling and passion for those he loved, for those things that meant much to him. He had an ability to love so unguardedly, so intensely, so unconditionally. This side of his nature had impressed me, and I envied him. God, how I envied him that. I coveted the way he could surrender to any or all of his whims and feelings and not fear the rejection I did. Yet now in the cold light of day I see that he was no better treated, in truth, than I have been. Both monsters by others' denunciation, mine at least hidden from physical sight, his chastised by onerous reputation.

Yet Sirius was no saint to me; his intensity of feeling was not just confined to love, and I marvelled equally at the depths his hatred could assimilate. Its malevolence caused him moments of doubt, I am sure, and the soul searching he subjected himself to did immeasurable harm. Sirius's instincts governed the way he perceived things, and from the outside looking in, the reason was not always clear why he hated with such alacrity. He found it hard to cast off the old indoctrination of his upbringing, which at times became a liability that eventually would lead to his death.

Sadly, the fearlessness of youth and the unguarded love he gave so freely had been replaced in age and by circumstance with reticent cynicism. His affections where hidden in bravado, he feigned interest, and where as before he had spoken superficially with regard to the dogma and insidiousness of his home life, in those hours alone in Grimmauld Place, he had expanded on his life within its walls; it had been a revelation to me.

One particular afternoon came back to me clearly. It was as if in that moment in time I could reach out and touch him. He was made visible, reclining on the sofa of the drawing room somewhere beneath my feet and as audible as my own voice would be, were I to speak into the empty room I heard him, clear, level and dispassionate, thus before my eyes a scene from my memory unfolded.

"I broke her heart you know." His voice had split the silence of a wet afternoon as he sat watching the empty fireplace.

"Broke whose heart?" I had asked distractedly, thumbing through one of the books on dark magic I had taken from the bookshelves.

"My mother's."

"Ah, do you care?" I replied irreverently.

"Sometimes…she is my mother, or was. She wasn't always as she is now, any more than you or I are the same as we were."

"True, but you seem to hate her so and she returns your disdain with a ferocity that one can not help but admire, or is the nightly screaming match some pureblood show of affection and tradition, that this half-blood is unaware of?"

He grinned at me.

"Yeah, I could apologise for that, but what would be the point, you know damn well she means it… pity you couldn't bite her."

"I think even my counterpart has some standards." I had replied peering at him, in the gathering gloom of a winter's afternoon.

He chuckled softly. "That would be far more insulting to her then anything I have ever said. You might threaten her with that next time she starts."

"If you say so." I paused briefly before continuing, "So then, in light of that, why do you care that you have hurt her?"

"I grew to hate her. No, wait, that isn't quite right; I hated what she thought was—is—important, her belief system. But she is my mother; can you really hate your mother? You can try, I suppose," he continued without waiting for me to reply.

"It must have been hard for her, to have such expectation for her offspring, things that in her eyes are only good things that a mother of her standing should wish for her son and heir. Yet what I believed in made her think I was dishonouring all that she stood for, making a mockery of my talents and intellect to the point she saw me as wilfully stupid and rebellious. The constant alienation between us drove her to hate what I had become and in turn I began to hate all this." He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. "Yet we were still bound by the ties of mother and child. "

"But didn't she bring it on herself, trying to make you believe something you couldn't, trying to foist her dogma on you?"

"Not so, Remus, my old man. His consternation etched his features as he continued. I may have arrived at Hogwarts with my mind set on rebelling against all that had been expected of me, but there was a time when I was everything my mother had wished me to be. I was the heir apparent to the House of Black, and I knew it. I knew what was expected of me, and I relished in the idea of what life would be like for me."

"Right little prince charming," I replied with sly grin.

"You should have seen me, you'd have been impressed, believe me. I was charm personified, a self-possessed, precociously arrogant, little sod."

"So what made you change, what turned you against what was set out for you?"

"I am not so sure I have changed. I am still the same arrogant little bastard I was brought up to be."

"True, but at least you grew," I replied sarcastically. "As an outside observation, there was a considerable amount to be arrogant about, given your natural talents." I paused for a moment and reflected before continuing. "Still, boys of eleven are taught arrogance, they don't have it without being taught it, just as you're not prejudiced till someone teaches you to be, and that often comes from fear." I added thoughtfully.

"Agreed, which is why it's hard to know which incident made me want to change, but the desire to change became stronger once I was away from here. Suddenly I was happy, just being, not being Sirius Black of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, but just being a kid called Sirius at school. So to answer your question, there was more than one thing that made me realise I didn't really belong in this family." He hesitated. "Not that I am that sure where I do belong. But I knew I did not want or care about the same things that my mother did and that was long before they declared they felt Voldemort might be good for the wizarding community or brainwashed Regulus to the point he joined up with the Death Eaters," he concluded.

I stayed quiet; if I spoke or prompted him, the spell would have broken, and he would become reticent again. He was staring at the floor, picking at the cushion on his lap, remembering past pains that evidently he had hoped one day he would leave behind, but as yet still made manifest in his haunted expression. At times when he thought no one was looking at him, he would disappear inside himself, pain registering in those usually unfathomable eyes. Then as quickly as one blinks, he would jump to his feet and do something completely outrageous, claiming he was bored and needed entertaining. It was only later in life that I became aware of what had been going on behind the facade. Childhood can be so damaging in many ways, how could we know as children that Sirius' desire for mischievous fun, was to drive away inner demons he could not live with but that would not leave him? Thus insuring that he would never again be subordinate to the indoctrination of those who considered themselves in authority to him.

Suddenly he threw the cushion from him. I jumped; silently, I hoped he would continue, so I waited.

"Meeting up with James was one thing, and of course my cousins. Bellatrix was as nuts as she is now back then; it wasn't Azkaban that sent her off her wand. She was enough to make any sane wizard head for the hills yelling, 'not bloody likely, folks.' Andromeda, on the other hand, was brilliant. She wasn't the first Black to be born with a heart, and she wont be the last. I thought her incredibly brave for standing up to her nutty parents, and it convinced me that if I ever wanted to be free to make my own mistakes, I was going to have to do the same thing. "

"How strange, I can't imagine Bellatrix as a child."

"Well, she was. Family gatherings would bring them to this house. Bellatrix was always held up as the model daughter. But then my mother never did see the pleasure she derived from torturing smaller creatures she would happen on. The odd thing was she would torture some poor creature in the garden and Narcissa would burst into tears, call her beastly and pull her hair. They proceeded to roll about the garden hitting one another, scratching and pulling one another's hair, while yelling obscenities, till they were parted; mental both of them."

I couldn't help it, letting my book suddenly fall to the floor I bent down quickly to retrieve it in the vane hope of hiding my laughter at the image in my mind of the Princess of the Dark Lord's uprising rolling about in the garden of Twelve Grimmauld Place being bashed on the head by her little sister. It made her more real, less intimidating. I began to understand why Sirius couldn't take her seriously.

"Stop it, Moony. I know you are laughing, even without looking at you. It was not funny."

But his shoulders belied his words, and they shook quietly at the picture he had painted.

Standing up all pretence at retrieving the book gone. I crossed the room, a smile still lingering on my face. The day was closing in, the rain hadn't stopped, but the afternoon was turning out to be one of the best we had spent together in many a long year. I blew softly over one of the oil lamps that sat on the table near the window, muttering a spell; it burst gently into flame, emitting a warm golden glow throughout the room. Behind me, Sirius was moving over by the fireplace, a sudden rush of sound and the slow crackle of flames told me he had lit the fire. Returning to my chair, I made myself comfortable, the newfound warmth making me shiver as it began to spread through the decaying old sitting room. Sirius resumed his position, swinging his sartorially clad stockined feet up and stretching out.

"So, I say again, why do you care that you broke your mother's heart?"

"Because I betrayed her. She did love me. Yes, I know that is hard to believe, but it was true. She taught me to be the best I could be, and in one fleeting moment, as she saw it, and for no good reason, I brought her world crashing about her."

He paused, staring into the fire; in its half-light, a strange expression crossed his face, it defied words to give imagery to it, but pained was but a small part of that expression. As quickly as it had appeared, it disappeared, and just as with one of those moments, when you swear you have seen something out of the corner of your eye, turning your head to see it only to find nothing there, he continued his narrative.

"Don't get me wrong, I have no regrets, none at all, and I wouldn't change the road I took. But I do sometimes think of how she must have felt."

"It sounds inevitable to me. I'm sure you could not have avoided it given that you didn't agree with her. Isn't a parent meant to love unconditionally?"

"Yes, they are, but they are men and women first, even if they are magical ones and parents second, Remus. They have dreams, hopes, and wishes."

There was a slight irritation in his response, so I nodded my affirmation.

"Just think," he continued, "to have waited all that time for a child, then to be blessed, in your eyes, with a son, an heir to your future, to continue the line of the name that defines your very being, gives reason to your very existence. Without the birth of myself and Regulus, she would have failed at the one thing that she had to get right in her life, the one thing she would be brought low by, the one thing that was expected of her."

"I suppose, but Sirius, to have gone so far, to have denounced you as she did and continues to do."

I looked toward the hallway that held the for-once silent portrait of Mrs Black; whom I was having a great deal of trouble seeing as ever being younger, saner, devoted to and/or besotted with Sirius.

"But don't you see; I began the destruction of her world, and then Regulus dying in what she thought was the right cause, coupled with the demise of Voldemort, and any chance of the pureblood families wresting control of the wizarding world from the hands of the radicals. Her world was coming apart, and it would lead to social disorder. She believed that once the Muggleborns and half-bloods took over, it would lead to revolution, the discarding of her kind, and a shift in power that would have left her kind with no meaning or place. She had seen and heard of it, she must have been at least concerned."

"Perhaps, but we can all adapt."

"To what, Remus? She was the daughter of the House of Black. They are; in their eyes the elite in the elite class since they came to this country with William the Conqueror. How do people like that change? She was a well-educated witch, not just in the wizarding world, but also from her ancestry, when Muggles knew of wizards. My mother was brought up on horror stories of relatives and friends who had died in revolutions and social changes in the wizarding world that had swept through both Muggle and wizard society."

I stared at him. He had never talked about his family's past, and I had never asked, so I had never thought about him being anything but of Anglo Saxon wizardry.

"What?" He asked breaking into my thoughts. I realised I was just sitting staring at him.

"Sorry, I was just thinking. I didn't mean to stare. It was just what you said about your family. I never thought of you as—"

"A foreigner? Most purebloods are. They came to this country with invading Muggles. Or at the head of invading Muggle armies, as we would call them now, but then they would have just been the people in charge, no secrecy act in those days."

I didn't reply for a moment. I was picturing his ancestors on fiery black steeds galloping into battle.

"You do surprise me, Moony," he continued. "I would have thought you would have put two and two together when you saw the Black motto."

"Well, I did wonder. I knew what the motto meant, my French is a bit rusty but I could understand it; but I just assumed it was yet another affectation of a besotted pureblood family."

"You are so accepting of people. Live and let live." He sighed.

"Er, no, not really. I'm no saint, Sirius. There are quiet a few people I would be happy to see not breathing, if I could justify their demise. I just didn't note the connection, but now you mention it, you do look a little more Mediterranean marauder than English rose."

I caught the cushion he had thrown at me, hurling it back before he expected it; he laughed as it bounced off his head. It had been good to see him laugh freely in those surroundings.

"You will pay for that!" He raised the pillow again.

"Hang on, I have something I want to ask I pleaded in the hope of avoiding the pillow bashing. If you think you betrayed your mother because of your actions, why do you not see she betrayed you?"

"Because she is my mother, I can hate her, I can be angry at her and never want to see her again in my life. But can I deal with her hating me? How would you feel if you believed your mother hated you, that she valued her linage more then she valued you?"

"I think being locked up in this house is affecting your brain; you are talking bollocks, if you will forgive my use of the profanity. You hated her so much you ran away from home. Now you're finding excuses for her. Why, I don't get it."

"I ran away from home because I couldn't take the constant gibing at me, the disappointment that was palpable in the house whenever I was in here. The way they looked at me and spoke around me, it had been bearable at first, but then it became impossible to live with, and I knew I would be out on my own once I had left school, so I jumped before I was pushed or worse, denounced to the other side."

"Come on, there was more to it then that, surely?"

" A little, but it was the mental abuse that I found intolerable. I can handle physical abuse, but I had already had years of mental brainwashing and now in my moment of enlightenment I became irrational in my desire to be as far away from it as possible. I hate being brought low, and she knew that and knew just how to lower my spirits."

"So again, Sirius, why do you grant her the title of mother, why do you care, and why do you love her still?"

"Because I am more like her then you know, and if she can't be understood, loved, and forgiven for what she did, how can I?"

"Rubbish, Sirius." I was on my feet. I couldn't keep the anger out of my voice as I paced the room. "You and she are not alike."

"We are! Where do you think I get my passion for life from, my loyalty that do-or-die attitude, my arrogance, my ruthlessness? Remus, I get it from her. I am my mother's son. As I told you, for years I was everything she dreamt of, a pureblood prince for her to mould. Her life was not that great, from what I understand of it. Her only role was to reproduce for the family, an incubator to posterity."

I had been stopped in my tracks and stood frustrated trying to make sense of his forthright explanation, finally in a more measured but emphatic tone I continued.

"But Sirius, you may have learned loyalty at her knee, you may have the passion for life she had, you may yet do or die as she instilled in you and all your less pleasing and kindly attributes. However, Sirius, where you stopped being like her, and became yourself, is that you were not afraid to try and change she was, you took a path that would benefit others more then yourself."

He didn't reply. My outburst had driven him back into himself, just when I needed him to know how wrong his mother was about him. I waited; if I said anything, would he suddenly jump to his feet and suggest we do something more entertaining? He shifted in his seat, slid a little further down on the settee. For some reason not known to me I was holding my breath, but he was just making himself more comfortable.

"I don't think she was afraid of change. I think she knew that you couldn't change yourself, that once you make the wrong choice; you are set on a path of your own destruction. You are your own first victim."

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Sirius, that is crap. So you make one mistake in life, and you have to pay for it forever, you can never go back, you can never make better choice next time?"

"You can try, but it won't work, and maybe my mother knew it, maybe she knew that I would end up having an awful life because I am what I am. What I was brought up to be and trying not to be that person would destroy me, maybe that is why she clung to her way of thinking and her life." He was staring off into space as he finished speaking, as though he was reliving something in his mind.

"That is rubbish" I interjected. Look at how you changed; you could have the life of a fated Black, you could have gone the route of Bellatrix and been fated but you didn't. Something in you knew it was wrong for you, and you fought to change yourself for the better, and you have succeeded."

He suddenly swung himself into a sitting position and became very animated.

"No I haven't. I failed at all the major things in my life."

"How can you say that? You have one of the best natural magical abilities I know, you were one of the top students of Hogwarts, past and present. How can that be deemed failing?"

"Moony, what the fuck does magic matter, if it doesn't keep your friends alive, your family safe, and those you love happy? I failed to be a good son; I failed to stop my brother from being a complete prat and getting himself killed. He was my younger brother Remus, I was meant to look out for him and I let him die. I failed to see that in using you to punish Snape for being everything I despised about my upbringing I could have cost you your freedom, or worse still, your life. Oh, my nature really shone through that time didn't it? I used you without a thought. Then. Then, oh then I went for the big one and surpassed myself; I let myself get completely hoodwinked by that little wanker Peter, causing James' death. Finally, to add insult to injury, I let both James and Lily down; the one truly important task of my miserable life, to take care of Harry, and I failed spectacularly, getting myself locked up for twelve years."

He was on his feet pacing the floor, he was imprisoned again, not by the walls of the house or the memories evoked by it, but by his own accusations of failure.

"Hang on a minute, Sirius, we are all guilty when it comes to Harry, and I include James and Lily in that. We are all to blame for what happened there, not just you. We all failed to see there were better choices, and anyway, you couldn't be that much of a failure, they made you Harry's guardian, didn't they?"

"Yeah, well, that day there was no one more useless about." He replied as he threw himself back on to the settee.

"Oh, come off it. You're just feeling sorry for yourself, and I am not having it, we all have regrets. How can we grow and learn if we have no regrets? But this was the hand you were dealt, you have risen above most of it, now get off your arse and stop being such a brat and throwing your toys out of the pram."

"Yes, Remus, anything you say, Remus."

"And as for your mother, she was an evil bitch who turned on her son for failing to live up to some sick notion of racial purity that will never work."

"Not true; she knew Regulus and I were the last male heirs in the Black line, one dead the other destined not to have children of his own."

"Why not? You're young enough, for Lord's sake. Of course, the fact that you are dog ugly and a bag of bones might hold you back."

His two-fingered salute was given with an animated sarcasm, before continuing.

"Do you think I would ever have children? I want her line to end; I want to remove all trace of her family from the future. I will have the last laugh on her, I will beat my mother at her own game, the name Black will die with me."

"So your giving up sex too, sounds like game set and match to your Mam' if you ask me; she didn't want you fouling her blood line with muggle blood and you are making all her dreams come true. Now the smart move would be to have a large brood of half blood brats and bring them to visit her portrait every Sunday."

He threw his head back and laughed out loud a great guffawing bark.

"Moony, you have a positively evil streak in that good heart of yours. I can see the method in your madness, but be sensible my children would be worse then Voldemort, only devoid of even his humanity. Now you, on the other hand, you're perfect Dad material."

I couldn't help but laugh. The thought of me as a father was ludicrous.

"You jest old friend, no women would burden herself with me. But we were talking about you and you are far too hard on yourself. You are loved and how and you know it."

The smile didn't reach his eyes, which again were reliving unseen events

"No, Remus, I have done enough damage for one life. I know my limitations, and being a father is one of them."

"And Harry?"

"That is different. I wouldn't want to replace James in his life, not that I could. So I can never be his father, but he is a great kid were I to be a father I would be proud to have such a son."

"As I say Sirius you are to harsh, that child knows you better then he will ever know his parents, you are the closest thing he has to a father."

"You flatter me undeservedly, I will tell him all about his parent and we can make amends for leaving him alone all this time can we not," he replied looking at me pointedly."

I was surprised by my inclusion in this future Sirius envisaged, but it was a pleasant surprise. And while I was pondering this idea, the door of the drawing room opened, pushed by the very unsure foot of the silver-haired Tonks.

"Tea, thought you might like some, heard you talking when I came in, sounded important, so I thought I would get you some tea," she informed us as she set the tea tray on the table.

"Instead of just barging in and being told to get out, thus missing out on what you hope is juicy gossip?" Sirius asked of his young cousin.

The picture began to fade, and slowly sadly, Sirius's childhood bedroom slid into view, the voices receded into the not-too-distant past. The realization that I had been sat there for a long time and if I didn't get out of here soon some member of the order would return, and the eternal question of 'how are you' would begin. My errand had been secretive, not something I wanted to share, and not to be intruded on by well meaning, concerned for me voices. The relived memory of one of the last conversations Sirius and I had shared as friends had brought forth feelings of resentment towards the others of the Order so it was best that I leave undetected.

Filling the holdall with Sirius's belongings, the same battered leather bag that I had used to bring them here what seemed a lifetime ago now. A final check of the room, one last look. Sirius had left no tangible piece of himself in the room. I noticed the draw still ajar and moved to close it as I did so a small velvet pouch caught my eye. Taking up the velvet bag and opening it I peered inside before tipping the contents into my hand. A miniature portrait of a stunningly beautiful young woman confronted me; her countenance seemed familiar, as was her easy charm and coyly she inquired who I was. Then she threw back her head and laughed a soft bark like laugh as she flashed the most engaging of grey eyes I had seen in a while, and I knew why she was so familiar. I gently eased the miniature back into its place and pocketed the velvet bag.

Closing the door of Twelve Grimmauld Place I knew every visit in the future would be hard but hopefully infrequent. It would take me a quarter of an hour to walk to Paddington station and the train home. I had come to London to set my friend free from a nightmare, but it was I who had been set free by the realization that he had won his hard earned liberty in attempting if not succeeding to change. Not in leaving this house that held such miserable memories for him, but in accepting that his life there had shaped him, for good or ill. His fearlessness, for which he was often derided and called reckless, had been what made him take up the challenge of trying to change himself for the better. Sadly, fate had ended any chance of a resolution.

Yet as I handed my ticket to the guard and walked the length of the platform to my train, I knew that I was glad I had met Sirius Black. Glad we were friends; I envied his passionate nature, his freedom to react to how he felt, not to hide his anger, his love, his laughter, that do-or-die spirit. I loved his fearlessness in the face of adversity and that unbreakable tenacity he could display when he knew he was right. Of course, those same qualities that I loved made him hard to handle, difficult to be with at times. It made him angry and vengeful, and I had learned to accept both sides of his nature, for one without the other would mean he was not the Sirius I had come to love over the years. Those same qualities meant that whatever he was, he was never dull, and for the rest of my life he would be with me in everything I did. A spasm hit the back of my throat as I realised I would miss him everyday for the rest of that life.

Finding an empty carriage on the train I secreted myself into a corner. I felt drained, exhausted, and settled down to sleep as the train moved slowly out of the station. For the first time since his death, I caught the scent of Padfoot. I smiled wryly, and making myself comfortable, I let the lull of the train sooth me to sleep. It would be a long trip home for me.


End file.
